To Build a Home
by forlornwriter
Summary: AU. Swan Queen; Emma/Regina. Emma Swan is a struggling orphan. Regina Mills is a struggling single mother. Eventually, with the help of one boy, they meet and together learn the answer of a question that has plagued them their entire lives: What makes a home a home?
1. Prologue: Home Is

**PROLOGUE** | _HOME IS_

Coming home after having caught yet another perp is always a tiring affair, one much more gruelling than chasing after a man in a form-fitting dress and high heels.

Emma staggers into her apartment, one hand automatically reaching for the light switch located near the door while the other cradles the paper bag to her chest. The moment the door begins to swing closed, she waddles further inside, her feet aching for release from the devil that most people call heels. She swings them off as she walks, an arm heavily leaning against the closest wall as she does so, and winces the rest of the way towards the kitchen.

The balls of her feet are panging like a mother but she ignores them like she always ignores everything else that irritates her and takes out a box from inside the paper bag, placing both items on the kitchen counter. Slowly, as she always does on this day of the year, she opens the box, staring in silence at the cupcake loaded with white frosting that sits inside.

For a while, she only stares, frowning at the cupcake and wondering if things would ever change. Will every birthday go by like this? Spent doing her "job" chasing after people she is glad she has never had the displeasure to meet before and then go traipsing off to her empty apartment where only silence and shadows crawling along dim walls await her?

Emma has no idea why she told that no good asshole that it was her birthday, why she told him about her background. Maybe she's getting so desperate for company that she is telling her life story to any man who pretends that he is actually interested in getting to know her when he is only eyeing her with unconstrained lust that makes her want to cringe. The thought is a depressing one but Emma has gotten used to depressing. Too used to it, in fact.

Sighing, the blonde picks up a candle with her forefinger and thumb, gently beginning to lower it into what she tries to make sure is the centre of the cupcake. It smooths its way about a quarter way through before Emma lets go of it to grab a match and strike it against the matchbox so that it lights, slowly lowering it and allowing it to ignite the tip of the candle. She blows out the match after.

Emma sinks her head down onto her crossed arms that rest heavily atop the kitchen counter, staring at the flame of the candle as it flickers constantly. She tries to smile but it turns into a tight pursing of her mouth instead as she thinks back to the start of the year, the year before that, and the other endless years before that one. All of them the same, all of them spent in solitude and loneliness and four empty walls devoid of life other than her own.

"Another banner year," she says, trying to sound cheerful, only for the words to fall flat. She could never really lie to herself. It is more due to the fact that she knows it's a lie rather than her "superpower".

The blonde stares into the flame, wondering if she should do it, before going ahead with it anyway. She closes her eyes, squeezing them closed tightly like she has done every twenty-seven years on this same day before this one, and wishes desperately. Even if she knows that, like always, it will never come true.

_I wish I don't have to spend my birthday alone._

Emma takes in a breath and allows it to whoosh out and blow out the candle, keeping her eyes firmly closed. She waits a second or two and is about to open her eyes (then laugh and curse herself for being so childish as to actually _wish on a candle_) when the trill of a doorbell going off hits her ears. She opens her eyes instantly, staring down at the extinguished candle that is still emitting wisps of smoke in disbelief.

She eventually straightens up and lumbers towards the door, confused and tired and weary, opening it only to see nobody standing on the other side. She happens to glance down then and makes eye contact with...a kid.

Her mouth drops open a little and her eyebrows furrow in bewilderment. Out of everything she had been expecting, the list most certainly did not include a small brown-haired boy.

"Uh," she utters confusedly, continuing to stare down at the boy, "can I help you?"

The boy doesn't have the same difficulty conjuring up words as she does. "Are you Emma Swan?" he inquires, arms uselessly hanging at his sides. He looks almost jittery, as if anticipating the answer to life itself.

"Yeah," she answers cautiously, before asking, "Who are you?"

"My name's Henry. I'm your son," he replies, bouncing on the balls of his feet once. His lips then spread into a smile with no hitch whatsoever.

Emma is caught between fainting, throwing up, or closing the door right on his face. She ends up doing neither, as the boy simply wedges into the apartment from underneath her arm. It takes her a couple blinks before she realizes what just happened, and then she is stuttering, trying to come up with something firm to say. Something an adult would say to a child when they are supposed to listen to them, to bend to their authority.

"Woah, hey, kid. Kid!" she calls weakly, watching as he confidently walks into the kitchen. "_Kid_!" Emma, unsure of what else to do, allows the door to close and trails after the boy. "I don't have a son." He ignores her, which only makes her feel more frustrated and desperate. "Where are your _parents_?"

He turns towards her then, staring unwaveringly as one of his hands clamp down on a chair. "Ten years ago, did you give up a baby for adoption?" he asks.

A lead weight seems to fall inside her at the question. She stares at him silently, unable to answer or properly comprehend as realization and horror dawns on her.

"That was me," he finishes. His other hand clamps down on the kitchen table as he continues to stare up at her imploringly from where he stands. Her son. Her ten-year-old son who she never expected would show up on her doorstep. The very one that she had resolved to give up, to never see again.

Emma continues to stare, fidgeting in place and shifting her weight around uselessly, before stepping back. "Give me a minute," she manages, then turns around and strides to the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a numb hand. She leans her hand against the door, staring unseeingly at grey tiles.

Questions race through her mind a mile a minute. Where did he come from? Why is he here? What is she supposed to do? Would his parents be mad? Where are they anyway? How in the seven hells did he even manage to find her? Shit she doesn't even know how to take care of a child what is she going to do how are things going to work out is this going to be permanent or—

"Hey, do you have any juice?" the kid—_Henry. His name is Henry and he is my _son_!_—asks from the other side, voice somewhat muffled.

Emma turns her head to stare horrified at the door. But not exactly at the door. Rather, she is staring at what is standing behind the door, waiting for her to exit before it can pounce.

_He's not some kind of crazy animal, Emma_, she tries to hopelessly remind herself. Hopelessly being the keyword in that sentence or thought or whatever since 'horrified' doesn't even begin to cover how she is currently feeling at the moment.

"Never mind. Found some."

The blonde finally manages to conjure up enough false bravado and courage to swing open the door and march back into the kitchen, all of this with as much dignity as she can muster. She stares resolutely at Henry (her _son_) as he places a large bottle of juice down onto the kitchen counter.

"You know, we should probably get going," he says matter of factly.

Emma crosses her arms defiantly, tilting her chin up while she's at it. "Going where?" she inquires, trying to make sure Henry realizes who the actual adult is in the current situation at hand. He certainly isn't going to be bossing her around. _Definitely_ not.

"I want you to come home with me," Henry says, with the eagerness of a teenage boy saying the same exact thing to his girlfriend. He tacks on a smile at the end, as if that will make her immediately agree.

"Okay, kid," she says, uncrossing her arms. "I'm calling the cops." She strides as purposefully as she can in her tight pink dress towards the home phone.

Her fingers are outstretched for the phone when she hears, "Then I'll tell them you kidnapped me." _Oh dear God_.

Emma turns around to stare dryly at the boy, phone now securely in her grasp. She stares down in frustration at the phone, wanting nothing more than the boy to be whisked out of her sight.

"And they'll believe you because I'm your birth mother," she says, knowing exactly how that painful situation will end up. It's the classic tearjerker, really. Woman gets knocked up and gives her newborn baby up for adoption, only to regret the decision later and tries in vain to take him back, going so far as to kidnapping the kid.

"Yup."

"You're not gonna do that," Emma says lightly, testing the waters. It's time for her superpower to save the day.

"Try me," is the immediate answer. The kid has the gall to smirk.

_Gotcha, kid_.

"You're pretty good, but here's the thing," she says triumphantly, voice gaining momentum as she continues. "There's not a lot I'm great at in life, but I have one skill—let's call it a superpower." She pauses dramatically, before revealing, "I can tell when anyone is lying. And you, kid, _are_." With this, Emma looks down at the phone and begins to dial.

"Wait," Henry speaks up, sounding weak and defeated.

Without wanting to, she obeys.

"Don't call the cops. _Please_," he says sadly, voice catching on the last word. "Come home with me."

Indecision creeps up on her. "Where's home?"

"Storybrooke, Maine."

The stupidity of the name catches her off-guard. She wonders if he's trying to pull a fast one on her.

"'Storybrooke'? Seriously?" she asks in disbelief.

"Mhm," he hums, nodding his head and looking surprisingly innocent in spite of how demonic he had seemed before, threatening her. Nevertheless, the main thing is that Henry isn't trying to lie to her again.

Emma sighs heavily, already knowing that she shouldn't do what she's about to do next. She does it anyway.

"Alrighty then," she mutters. "Let's get you back to Storybrooke."

Henry follows her as she walks past him. Emma doesn't have to turn around and look to know that he is smiling in satisfaction. She whirls around anyway, sudden thought coming to mind. He doesn't expect it and so isn't able to wipe his smile (well, more like smirk) away in time. The blonde woman fights the urge to chuckle.

"First, I have to change out of _this_," she says, pointing down at her dress that still is showcasing the stain from before, where drinks had fallen on her thanks to an embezzling, cheating jerk of a date. She knows that the stain will probably never come out but doesn't lament the loss of the garment. Pink isn't her favourite colour anyway.

"Okay," Henry easily says, walking to a bar stool and sitting atop it. "I'll wait here."

"Okay," she repeats, warily eyeing the boy before walking towards her bedroom.

"Hey, Emma," Henry calls out from behind, just before she can enter her room and close the door behind her. She turns around, annoyed and irritated, to see him eyeing her...er, birthday cupcake.

"What?" she asks, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom with a raised brow.

"Could I have some?" he asks, looking forlornly at her before gazing once more at the cupcake as if it's the Holy Grail. The blonde snorts at the thought, straightening up and slipping into the bedroom, flipping on the lights afterwards.

"Sure, go ahead," she says, turning around just in time to see Henry grab the cupcake, take off the burnt candle, and chomp off a good chunk of the sugary treat.

For some reason, Emma can't help but smile at the sight of him chewing away contentedly, even though she should feel miffed or angry or _something_ apart from...whatever it is she is feeling.

Still, she continues to smile, even after she shuts the door.

* * *

**forlornwriter:** _I honestly love the original show with all of its magic and curses and all that good stuff, but for the story—this story—that I wished to write, the idea of everyone in Storybrooke being storybook characters just didn't fit. This story is meant to focus less on the fantasy aspect and more of the "real life"/"domestic" aspect concerning Regina, Emma, and Henry. Just of their lives in Storybrooke, without Henry rejecting and labelling Regina as the Evil Queen, though this is not entirely taken away in this story... (You'll see what I mean later, should you choose to continue reading this train wreck.)_

_Do keep in mind that, while this fic will not be running parallel to the show, many things cropped up in the show during the first season will occur in this. Like Henry meeting Emma, for example; I kept pretty much all of the dialogue intact but added some things as I saw fit._

_I won't divulge exactly what else will be modified later on but be rest assured that there may be scenes/situations that are really familiar and for good reason. Don't worry, though. I _will_ be straying away from the show so don't think this story will be full of only recycled dialogues and scenes._

_Anywhom, I sincerely hope that people will give this story a chance, that people will favourite/like/alert it. This is a real leap of faith for me since I am a recent watcher of the show and I decided to put this up to see people's reactions to it and find out their thoughts as well as to figure out if I even wish to continue this. Let's hope that I'm at least up to par in terms of characterization._

_Do let me know what you think so far and thank you for reading this horrendously long author's note!_


	2. Welcome to Storybrooke

**CHAPTER ONE** | _WELCOME TO STORYBROOKE_

By the time they are halfway to Storybrooke, it is steadily raining without any signs of stopping. Emma stares out the windshield, wipers crawling along the wide expanse of the window every now and then, with squinted eyes. The car's headlights are on but only light up the road stretched just ahead, making the blonde a bit paranoid.

She frowns when Henry changes the radio station for the sixth time in the last minute, being the kid that he is. To Emma, they are all indecisive and picky and ever-changing, even though she must admit that she doesn't exactly see them often or anything. All of her encounters with children, however, have been...best not heard of. One of the many reasons she had given up, well, _Henry _for adoption (how weird that still feels, referring to the boy as her kid).

Emma resists the urge to close her eyes in mounting frustration when Henry once more presses one of the six buttons that switch to different stations, fingers clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. It's not that she isn't a fan of music. She supposes that it is just the absurdness of the day that has gotten to her, coupled with the fact that the constant changing of the stations are annoying and grating to the ear.

The next time the brown-haired boy reaches for one of the buttons, Emma sees it coming.

Grasping Henry's wrist with one hand, she moves it away from the radio and lets the appendage go so that it drops harmlessly onto his lap. "Stop it, kid," she warns, placing her hand back on the steering wheel.

"You never told me that before," Henry argues with a frown that is bordering on a pout.

The blonde risks removing her narrowed gaze on the road ahead to pin the boy with what she hopes is a stern look. "I'm telling you now," she says, then turns away.

"Can I change it one more time?" Henry wheedles.

Her answer is immediate. "No."

"_Please_?"

She purses her lips, blinking hard before exhaling heavily through her mouth. "Fine. But just once." She risks another glance. "Choose wisely, kid."

He nods his head obediently and reaches out as best he can with his seatbelt strapped across his tiny torso, pressing the third button. Rap music fills the car the moment he does, making Emma desperately want to facepalm. She reaches over and turns off the radio instead.

"But—" the boy begins, though the blonde cuts him off before he can finish.

"Why did you find me?" she asks, finally uttering the dreaded question that has been flying around in her mind for the longest time. She had previously resolved to keep quiet about it, to just send the child back home and never see him again, but curiosity is hard to resist.

"What?" Henry asks, confused by the sudden change in conversation.

Emma glances at him nervously from the corner of her eye. "You came all the way from your home to mine," she says. "It's obvious you went into a lot of trouble to find me. Why?"

He is quiet for a moment. "I wanted to see if—if you were any different from..." he suddenly trails off, silent.

"Your parents?" Emma guesses.

"I don't _have_ any parents," he rebukes, sounding rather exasperated. "Just a mom and she's _evil_."

The blonde furrows her eyebrows at the statement, unable to feel a bit sorry for the woman. "'Evil'?" she repeats. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it?"

"She is," Henry insists, voice more subdued. "She doesn't love me; she only pretends to."

Emma opens her mouth to say something but finds herself unable to come up with any words. Defeated, she closes her mouth, unsure of what she should even say. After all, she has never been a mother. The only kid she has had is Henry and today is the first time she has met him after having given him up for adoption. Her own mother had...well, she has never met her, nor does she have anyone in her life that could be considered a mother figure. She's no good at telling the kid anything regarding mothers or parents in general.

"Kid," she begins, attempting anyway. "I'm sure that's not true."

"You don't know that," Henry says sulkily. "Just take me back to your place."

"What?" Emma asks, shocked. She tries not to turn and stare stupidly at the boy. "Before you begged me to take you to Storybrooke."

"Yes, but not so you could just give me back to my mom!" he says heatedly. "I wanted you to—to—I don't know! Talk to her and tell her that you're going to take care of me now or something. I don't want to live with her anymore!"

The woman's tense shoulders deflate at the words, realizing what had no doubt happened. Henry had probably just gotten into an argument with his mother and, upset, ran away from home. Maybe he already knew where she had lived and decided in a fit of anger to find her, to try and see if he could live with her instead.

This—Henry leaving his home, finding her—had all happened on a whim, a temper tantrum; one most children have every now and then. Good. (She completely ignores the tiny sense of disappointment she feels.)

"Let's take you back home, Henry," she says tiredly. "You can talk it out with your mom and I'm sure everything will be fine."

"No, it won't!" Henry insists, riled up at this point. "She's _evil_ and she doesn't love me! She _never_ will. Let's just go back. She won't think of looking there."

"Too late, kid. We're already here," Emma says as the car whizzes past a large sign cheerfully welcoming all to the town of Storybrooke. She looks at Henry quickly, noticing how he crosses his arms and stares sullenly down at his lap. For a few seconds, she ponders of what would be the right thing to say, opening and closing her mouth wordlessly, before giving up and going back to focusing on driving.

An uncomfortable silence washes over them, one that the blonde wishes to dispel with something, _anything_. Even the stupid rap music from before is a welcomed idea but she doesn't attempt to turn on the radio. Instead, she stews in silence, frowning as she further travels into the town.

"Okay, kid, how 'bout an address?" she asks, allowing her thumbs to hit and bounce off of the steering wheel. It's a weak attempt to get him to talk, as well as a weak attempt to figure out where he lives. The streets are dark and empty, devoid of any life, but she hadn't expected people to be walking around.

"44 Not Telling You Street," is the answer she gets. It's expected, but still makes Emma annoyed enough to brake abruptly and _hard_. There isn't much satisfaction to be gained by witnessing an unsuspecting, wide-eyed ten-year-old boy be propelled forward, seatbelt the only thing saving him from cracking his head against a car's dashboard.

Miffed, Emma unbuckles, opens the car door, and exits, violently closing the door afterwards. She shuffles on her feet, stewing silently, before she hears the opening and closing of a door. Brown hair just barely peeks out from the other side of the car, seen only due to her height.

"Look," she says, doing her best not to yell. "It's been a _long_ night. And it's almost"—she turns her head to stare up at a clock situated on a nearby building, furrowing her eyebrows as she registers the time displayed—"...8:15?" She crosses her arms, just barely hearing the cracking of leather come from her jacket, and leans against her car. Rain is much less violent now, stray drops hitting her every now and then, but not enough to drench her.

"That clock hasn't moved my whole life," Henry says off-handedly, moving to her side. He leans against the car as well.

Emma stares down at the boy for a beat, about to comment on the absurdity of the statement (surely someone would want to fix it? The town's mayor or whatever, maybe?) when she hears a voice come from across the street.

"Henry!" The two turn to see a bespectacled man with an umbrella and a leash leading to a large, spotted dog jog his way towards them. "What are you doing here?" He finally reaches the two at the end of his question, looking worried. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine, Archie." Henry leans forward to pet the dog.

"Who's this?" the man, Archie, asks, turning towards Emma.

Whether he is genuinely curious as to who she is or simply suspicious of her, she doesn't know. Nevertheless, she answers him, though vaguely. "Just someone trying to give him a ride home." She smiles, attempting to appear trustworthy, though can't help but think that it probably looks more like a grimace than anything.

Henry is quick to contradict her words, but probably not meaning to do so. "She's my mom, Archie." Emma's smile disappears immediately.

Archie looks taken aback, eyes awkwardly moving from son to birth mother. "Oh, I see."

Emma transfers her weight from one leg to another, uncomfortable. "You know where he lives?" she inquires, trying to act nonchalant about the fact that the man now knows who exactly she is to Henry.

"Yeah, sure. Just, uh"—he indicates with a hand to somewhere behind him—"right above Mistland Street. The mayor's house is the biggest one on the block."

Horror settles in at the words. Emma slowly turns towards Henry who is staring almost sheepishly down at Archie's dog. "You're the _mayor's_ kid?" she asks, incredulous.

"...maybe."

Before Emma can begin ranting, Archie seems to remember something. "Hey, where were you today, Henry? 'Cause you missed our session."

"Oh, uh, I forgot to tell you. I went on a field trip." It's obvious to the blonde that the kid is lying, and from his expression, Archie isn't so inclined to believe him either.

He glances towards Emma, a polite smile on his face, before looking down at the brown-haired boy and crouching so they are level with one another. "Henry," he begins, "what did I tell you about lying? Giving into one's dark side never accomplishes anything."

This has been dragging on for long enough and getting progressively more tiring, not to mention kind of weird. "_Okay_," Emma says, dragging out the first syllable. "Well, I really should be getting him home."

Archie straightens up from his crouch. "Yeah, sure. Well, uhm, listen. Have a good night and, uh"—he pats Henry on the arm—"you be good, Henry." He then turns to Emma, smiling, and she chuckles somewhat awkwardly as she watches the man begin to walk away.

"So, that's your shrink," she says, curious as to why he needs one.

"I'm _not_ crazy," he says sullenly, walking to the other side of the car.

Emma raises her eyebrows at his sudden anger, opening her car door. "Never said you were," she tells him before getting inside. Henry gets in as well, though closes his own door with a slam that makes flinch in surprise. "You don't seem crazy to me. Really."

"Right," he mutters sarcastically, putting his seatbelt on as she starts up the car and begins driving towards his house. They manage to pass by Archie, who is whistling contently as he continues to walk his dog, opening his umbrella with the hand that isn't holding onto the leash. Emma stares at his reflection in the rearview mirror before going back to looking at the road ahead.

"Look. I'll talk to your mom, kid," the blonde says slowly, not wanting to make him upset enough to jump out of the car or something else along those lines.

"You will?" he questions happily, all traces of his previous irritation erased. The unexpected change in demeanour and tone is almost frightening.

"I will," she confirms, nodding. "_But_ you have to come inside the house."

The ten-year-old purses his lips at the ultimatum before sighing softly and nodding his head. "Okay, fine. Only if you _do_ talk to her, though."

"I will," she repeats, glad that Henry is now mollified. This doesn't stop her from slapping his hand away when he reaches over to turn on the radio, however.

* * *

There is a small frown on Henry's face as they exit the car, having stopped directly in front of his house. Well, it looks more like a mansion, to be honest, with a large front yard that is covered with greenery. Emma tries not to stare at the place with a slack jaw and instead looks down at the boy after she has finished locking the car and they have begun to walk to the front door.

"Hey, I said I would talk to her," she says as gently as she can.

"Yeah, I know," the kid says, though his frown only worsens. "I just don't want to see her again."

Emma sighs softly. "She's your mom."

"Well, it doesn't matter now," he says, brushing her comment off. "You're going to talk to her and she'll let you take me away from here."

His words throw her in for a loop. "Whoa, what? Kid, I never agreed to _that_," she tells him. "I said I would talk to her. Hopefully it will clear up whatever's going on with you two. That's it. I...I can't take you in."

"But you _said_," he insists, eyebrows furrowing. "Y-you can't just take it back. I don't want to live with her! I want to live with _you_!" He sounds desperate by the end of his protest.

"I know you think you do, but she's your mom—"

"No, she's not! _You _are!" he tells her, frustrated.

They are in the middle of the pathway leading to the front door, both having stopped in their tracks and now staring at one another. The recently turned twenty-eight-year-old bends at the waist, placing her hands on her knees, and stares at the boy (no, the _son_)she has recently met seriously.

"I may be your birth mother, Henry," she says calmly, "but I was not the one who raised you. Your mom didn't give birth to you but that doesn't make her any less of a mother because, kid, it was her who took care of you for ten years. Not me."

"Why didn't you?"

The question catches her unawares. "What?"

Henry stares at her, not put off whatsoever by her response. "Why didn't you raise me?" he asks her, voice trembling. Emma blinks at the sight of tears gathering in his eyes. "Why did you give me up for adoption?"

"Kid—"

"_Henry!_" cries a sudden voice. Emma straightens up slowly and turns towards where it came from to see an impeccably dressed woman jogging over to them in heels, hands pin-wheeling and eyes shiny with tears.

"Henry," the woman gasps out once more before throwing her arms around said boy and embracing him. "Are you okay?" She pulls away and places her hands on the curves of his shoulders. "Where have you _been_?" She then straightens up as she turns towards Emma, and this is when she gets a proper look at the brunette's face.

Henry's mother is, well, _attractive_; her dark hair is short, brushing her neck, and she is surprisingly wearing make up at this time of night: red lipstick, eyeliner that brings out her brown eyes, and maybe even blush. Shadows are cast over her face due to the scant lighting but Emma can still easily make out dried tears under her eyes and fresh ones clinging to her eyelashes.

But all too soon she is looking down worriedly at Henry, hair swishing forward and obscuring her face from view once more. "What happened?"

All traces of sadness have left his face, leaving only a pursed mouth and narrowed eyes. "I found my _real_ mom!" Henry spits out with malice, running around his mother and disappearing into the house. Emma watches him go as the dark-haired woman simply stares down at the floor, and then notices a handsome, bearded man awkwardly staring at the open door as well.

She turns towards Henry's mother, a bit taken aback to make eye contact with her again. The dark-haired woman stares at her in shock, still blinking away tears. Her face is almost like an open book; there is surprise and horror there, along with a sadness that makes her look somehow older than her years.

Emma finds herself unable to come up with any words but the other woman doesn't seem to have the same problem. She closes her eyes for a few seconds before opening them, all traces of horror and sadness gone. Only leaving surprise. "Y-You're Henry's _birth mother_?"

Emma nervously smiles at her. "Hi."

"I'll just...go check on the lad. Make sure he's alright," the man gruffly says, sensing the tension and no doubt wanting to escape it. Emma wonders if he is Henry's father before remembering that the kid had told her before that he only had a mother.

She looks at said mother to notice her _surveying_ her, eyes roving up and down her figure. Scrutinizing her? Sizing her up? ...Checking her out?

_Wait, what._

Before she can chastise herself inwardly for the stupid comment, Henry's mother is smiling at her (she couldn't help but think it to be forced). "How would you like a glass of the best apple cider you ever tasted?"

"Got anything stronger?" Emma asks before she can stop herself.

* * *

Regina Mills. Mayor of Storybrooke and Henry Mills' mother. An attractive single mother who may not be so single after all. And also a woman who is insistent on getting her to try apple cider, at that.

Emma watches as said woman enters her line of sight from what might have been the kitchen, holding two empty glasses almost expertly in one hand. She stalks across the room, heels clacking against the superbly cleaned tiled floor, towards a wooden table.

"How did he find me?" Emma asks, thumbs hooked into the pockets of her jeans. She watches from the doorway as the brunette places the glasses down on the table before taking off the cover of something.

"No idea," Regina tells her, voice now more controlled and less vulnerable. "When I adopted him, he was only three weeks old. Records were sealed." She grabs what looks like tongs, using them to place something into the glasses. By the clinks that are heard, 'something' could only be ice cubes. Emma raises her eyebrows at the sophistication (tongs? Really?). "I was told that the birth mother didn't want to have any contact."

"You were told right," the blonde says truthfully, fidgeting in place as the brunette pours apple cider into the glasses. "And the father?"

There is no need to tell her anything. Best keep it vague. "There was one."

"Do I need to be worried about him?" Regina asks, facing away from her.

"Nope," Emma stiffly tells her. "He doesn't even know." She purses her lips at the thought of him, looking up and making eye contact with Regina as she makes her way towards her.

"Do I need to be worried about you, Miss Swan?" Not even trying to keep her distaste about the previous events secret, it seems.

Emma gives her what she hopes is a sincere look as she grasps the offered glass. Her thumb accidentally brushes Regina's fingers, who quickly pulls her hand away. "Absolutely not."

They hold silent eye contact when footsteps alert them to someone approaching.

"Madam Mayor," begins the man from before, making his way down the staircase, "you can relax. Other than being a tired little boy, Henry's fine."

"Thank you, Sheriff," Regina says, nursing her own glass of apple cider.

The interaction manages to answer Emma's previous thoughts. Their relationship is simply one a mayor has with any other person who works underneath them. It's highly likely that Regina had contacted the man when she first realized Henry was missing, no doubt worried sick for his safety. So perhaps she _is_ a single mother: both literally and figuratively, you could say.

As Storybrooke's Sheriff turns to leave the house, Regina begins to walk. Probably wanting Emma to follow her, which she does.

"I'm sorry I dragged you out of your life," the brunette says over her shoulder. "I really don't know what's gotten into him." Referring to Henry, of course.

They both make their way to a room with an impressive bookcase and two couches facing each other, a table placed in between them. A fireplace is there as well, fire flickering away within it, only adding to the blonde's previous idea that the place is _way_ too sophisticated.

"Kid's having a rough time. It happens." Emma passes by Regina, who has her hand placed against the wide open door. The latter swings the door closed when they have both entered.

"You have to understand: ever since I became mayor, balancing things has been tricky." Regina moves to stand imperiously near the fireplace, a hand placed atop the mantle. "You have a job, I assume?"

Emma, seated on a couch now, pulls the glass away from her lips—_it's actually better than she imagined_—before nodding and turning towards the other woman. "Uhm, I keep busy. Yeah." She places the temptation of a drink near the rather random tray of shiny red apples on the only table in the room.

Regina walks towards the opposite couch. "Imagine having another one on top of it. That's being a single mom." Sitting down, she copies Emma and places her glass on the table as well. Pushing a few strands of her hair away before leaning back, she sends a smile the blonde's way. "So I push forwarder. Am I strict? I suppose. But I do it for his own good. I want Henry to excel in life." Her smile disappears as she stares questioningly at her. "I don't think that makes me evil. Do you?"

"I'm...sure he's just saying that," she answers, unsure of what else to say. But she is being truthful all the same. "I mean, he's just a kid. Doesn't know any better. Did he recently find out he was adopted? Might have been because of that."

"No, of course not," Regina says, looking surprised and even a little angry by her question. "I would _never_ lie to him by leading him to believe that I gave birth to him. I made sure he knew of it a long time ago so something like this didn't happen. Though, I must say, I honestly believed it wouldn't be able to happen, no matter how upset he might've been by the knowledge. As I told you before, records were sealed."

"Right. Yes. Sorry," she backtracks, not having meant to offend the woman. "Look, I don't know why he did what he did, but I think he's just confused right now. I think he just...needs time and your support to get through, uh, everything." Of course, Emma has no idea if what she is spewing is even true. She knows next to nothing about Henry, especially kids in general.

Thankfully, Regina nods, appearing to agree with her. "Yes, you're right," she says, though it seems like she is talking more to herself. "He just needs time and support."

"Well, either way, it's none of my business. I mean, he's your kid. And I really should be heading back." Emma grabs her glass and takes a sip of it, the apple cider sliding down her throat and instantly warming her to the core. Her sip quickly turns into more of a gulp.

"Of course," the brunette says, getting up and walking towards the door. Emma watches her go, pulling her lips away from the glass. The move had been unexpected. Is it weird that she had been hoping that she could spend more time in her company? Maybe even manage to finish the glass of apple cider that really is the best she's ever had, even though she's never had apple cider before?

Nevertheless, Emma quickly clinks the glass down on the table and gets up, awkwardly moving past Regina, who is standing at the open door. The brunette starts out walking behind her but takes the reigns quickly, moving ahead and leading her towards the front door. She opens the door for her once more, smiling tightly.

"Thank you for bringing Henry back, Miss Swan."

"No problem," Emma replies, smiling tightly herself. "Uh, thanks for the apple cider. It was really good."

"Glad to hear it."

Realizing that the conversation has been finished, the blonde nods her head and steps over the threshold. The door closes behind her immediately, leaving her to stride down the path to her car alone, pulling her keys out of her back pocket as she does so. She curls her fingers around them, unable to shake away the feeling of eyes on her.

Pivoting on her feet, she looks back towards the house to see Henry staring at her from one of the large windows. He leaves her line of sight the moment he realizes that she has caught him. The lights in the room he is in, no doubt his bedroom, go out, leaving darkness in their wake.

* * *

By the time she is in her car and approaching the outskirts of town, it has begun raining once more. The wipers are crawling along her windshield dutifully and she is squinting to make out the road ahead, just like before, but there is no one sitting in the passenger seat and no one to argue over the radio with.

Emma frowns at the thought. No. She doesn't miss Henry. It's just her loneliness creeping up on her. After all, it _is_ her birthday.

"Huh. Almost forgot," she murmurs to herself.

With the craziness of meeting her son for the first time in ten years and dealing with his good-looking yet somewhat hostile mother, her birthday has been the last thing on her mind. But it doesn't matter, anyway. Her birthday this year may have become different than the others years before, but it doesn't change anything. She is still alone in the end.

Sighing heavily and trying to get her mind off of dark subjects, she turns on the radio. Classical music suddenly fills the car, making her groan, and she leans over to change the station when she notices movement from up ahead. A small animal is crossing the street—a squirrel, she realizes.

Gasping, Emma brakes quickly while simultaneously turning her steering wheel violently to the left. The car veers in that direction and she vaguely makes out the _'Welcome to Storybrooke'_ sign before the car hits it, _hard_. Then her head is smashing against the window, bouncing off, then hitting the steering wheel.

And then there is nothing. Just black.

* * *

**forlornwriter:**_ This would be where I comment on Regina and how she so far appears to be exactly how she is in the show even though she isn't the Evil Queen in this fic. However, I won't, because I feel that this is more something that should, and will, be explained and further explored in the story. Plus, it would be very interesting to see if any of you have any theories/ideas as to why, though the reason isn't really complex at all._

_Anywhom, to move on, thank you so much for favouriting, alerting, and especially for reviewing! I enjoyed reading all of them and hopefully I will write a scene or two, maybe even a chapter in Regina's perspective. I find that she is a character that some writers don't really pin down that well, which makes me both excited and hesitant to write for her, but I'll do my best._

_Thank you for reading, and please do continue to send your support!_


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